


More Than Words

by kally77



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kally77/pseuds/kally77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post Origin<br/>Prompt: Bitey / Schmoopy</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Words

Two empty bottles are toppled on the conference table when Spike walks into Angel’s office.

A third one, half empty, is in Angel’s hand. Spike only sees that one when Angel, sitting on the sofa, raises it and drinks, drinks… and empties it, too.

Spike pauses on the threshold, frowns, then looks back. Harmony is behind her desk, filing her nails. He snorts rather than ask the question burning his lips, and closes the door.

He leaves the clipboard on the table with the empties, grabs a new bottle from the open liquor cabinet, and joins Angel.

“So, what are we drinking to?” he asks as he twists the cap open.

Before he can get a swig, Angel tugs the bottle right out of his hands. Spike lets him have it, lets him drink, but when the bottle comes down, he steals it back. Angel holds on to it for a few seconds, and the tug of war that ensues is just one more in a very long list. Spike wins, not because he wants it more, this time, but because Angel is already well on his way to drunk.

“Why do you always have to take what’s mine?” he mutters, slurring the words a little and scowling at the window.

Behind the magic glass, the city gleams under the sun, shards of light bouncing everywhere, sharp enough to slice vampires to ribbons.

“Why don’t you ever want to share?” Spike shoots back, and drinks deep. Fire slides down his throat, but he hasn’t felt warm since he died. Again.

He holds the bottle back toward Angel. A frown, a mistrusting look, and Angel takes it. He doesn’t drink, though, just rests the bottle on his thigh and keeps looking out at the city.

“Came to give my report on her royal blueness,” Spike says, lighting a cigarette. He exhales smoke along with a sigh. “But I’ve got this feeling you don’t want to hear it.”

Angel offers the smallest of shrugs. He used to be a lot more talkative when he was drunk.

No one would ever ask, and Spike would certainly not answer if they did, but he liked to get drunk with Angelus – or rather, he liked to watch Angelus get drunk while he himself remained, more or less, sober. The brogue would thicken, those nights. Angelus’ hands would linger long after their bodies had spilled. And fangs and hands would offer truths that, sober, Angelus would never voice. Angel wouldn’t either, not when sober and not even when drunk.

“So? Are you going to tell me what we’re drinking to?”

Angel’s head slowly turns to him, and for a second, maybe even two, Spike hopes.

He should know better by now.

“No,” Angel says, and he looks away again.

What he doesn’t say, Spike notes, is his usual refrain. ‘Go away.’ ‘Mind your own business.’ ‘Why are you even still here?’

So Spike stays there. He tugs the bottle out of Angel’s grip again, drinks another mouthful or two, and fills the silence with useless words.

Who cares what comes out of Illyria’s mouth when she fights? Who cares whom her fighting style reminds Spike of? Who gives a damn that she was asking questions about the kid Angel introduced to them long after he was gone?

“She what?” 

Oh. Apparently, Angel cares.

“Said she thought she knew him from somewhere,” Spike says with a shrug that’s anything but casual. “Well, no. She said Fred…”

His voice trails off when Angel’s eyes close tight. Right, then. Better not to prod that wound.

“Do you…”

Angel’s voice is a whisper. Spike lets it rise in its own time.

“Do you remember what it was like to have a family?”

The question takes Spike by surprise. Family… That’s a word he doesn’t use much anymore. Every shred of family he ever had was torn away from him, ripped to pieces. There’s just one bit left, patched back together – sort of.

Angel’s eyes turn to him, dark and empty – waiting for an answer. It’s been a while since Spike felt so naked under those eyes. He never liked it much, and hides behind a cloud of smoke.

But Angel is still waiting, and Spike’s the one who started the small talk.

“Don’t have to remember,” he mutters, his gaze now taking in the city – anything not to look at Angel anymore. “You’re right there, aren’t you?”

Angel doesn’t reply; not in words, at least. He sets the bottle down on the floor. He stands. Spike bites the inside of his cheek and calls himself an idiot. And then he frowns when Angel pulls the cigarette from his lips and throws it to the carpet. Before Spike can protest, Angel sits down again. Right on Spike’s lap, his knees on either side of Spike’s thighs. He’s a little unsteady, and without thinking Spike grabs his hips.

He’s not quite sure what Angel is doing. Not quite sure he should ask, either.

When Angel leans down, thick fingers tugging at the collar of Spike’s duster to expose his neck, Spike stops thinking. Stops wondering. He tilts his head to one side, as clear an invitation he can give without words. Angel doesn’t quite meet his eyes before plunging down. His fangs tear into Spike’s skin with something that could almost be gentleness, but when he pulls, it’s with the same strength, the same focus as always. And as always, even after all those years, it goes straight to Spike’s dick.

Spike closes his eyes, lets himself melt into the sofa. His fingers are tight on Angel’s hips. It seems to last forever, and yet, it’s over much too soon. When Angel moves off him and stands, it’s all Spike can do not to hold him back.

“You always came back,” Angel says, and Spike isn’t sure if it’s meant as a reproach or praise—not until Angel adds, “I never said I was glad you did.”

Technically, he still doesn’t say it now, but his hand, when it pulls Spike to his feet and toward the elevator, when it tugs at buttons and zippers – when it draws Spike’s face and fangs to the crook of Angel’s neck – that hand says a lot more than words ever could.


End file.
